12:34
by PRAUS
Summary: You can't kill what's already dead. The Master returns with a not so slight case of amnesia . Takes place after "The End of Time" miniseries. The Master/OC


**A/N **_My first Dr. Who fanfic. Set after the "End of Time" special. You never really find out what happened to The Master, so I figured why not bring him back. He did regenerate, but in my head, since The Master is smarter than The Doctor, he can retain the physical aspects of a previous incarnation._

_Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own it._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

"_You are a disease. An abomination. A disgrace to the very name 'Time Lord.'"_

He jerks awake, eyes widening as the last echoes of _that_ voice bounce between his ears.

He is dreaming again. The same dream he has every time he shuts his eyes. No images. No color. No faces. Only a blinding white _nothing_. And that _voice_ – deep and rumbling and filled with so much authority. It scares him a little. Not just the tone but what lays beyond it. Something familiar. A memory his mind tries to grasp because he knows, absolutely _knows_ it is important. But, as in the dream, the white-nothing obliterates everything. All he is left with is that voice.

He lifts his head. Where is he now?

A park. Sitting on a bench. Hazy clouds obscure the blue sky, making it seem almost white as they refract the sunlight, distributing it evenly in every direction. No shadows mar the pavement, lending him no indication of time. How long has he been here? He doesn't know.

He watches the people strolling along the paved pathways, the children tumbling in the grass as their parents enjoy a picnic, and wonders if anyone knows him. If anyone is waiting for him to join in their leisurely walk or sprawl on the grass and have a sandwich. He scans the endless faces but no one hails him. They are content in their own world, detached from him. They may just as well be as intangible as his dream.

Nothing is familiar here and yet he feels it ought to be. He _should_ know the name of this park. He _should_ know someone here who can even tell him what _here_ is and how he got on this bench in the first place.

He drops his face into his hands, rubbing his temples. He shuts his eyes against the hazy day. It hurts his eyes to look at – distorting the colors so everything is both brilliant white and muted at the same time. Voices speak and laugh around him, but the sound is flat in his ears. Nothing is right here. Has the grass always been green? His foot beats an endless rhythm in annoyance. Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap. He knows it's sky's fault. It deadened the colors, so why not sounds, too? If the sun was at another angle, maybe, or if there was no vapor to blur it, everything would be right again – the colors and sounds.

His hands migrate to cover his ears from the achromatic noise.

_An abomination!_

"Excuse me, young man," someone says. The sound is muffled but close, and he turns and looks for the cause of it.

A woman – an _old_ woman – stands over him, eyes squinched up in an almost embarrassed smile.

"Please forgive me, I'm sure you must get this a lot, but, do you know who you look like? The former-Secretary-of-Defence-what's-his-name-who-set-up-the-Archangel-network? Oh! Saxon, I believe it was. Handsome gent. You look just like him. A bit younger though, but yeah, just like him."

The woman sits on the other side of his bench, eyes still squinched tight. He wonders how she can even manage to see him.

"Has anyone ever told you?" she asks, determined to keep the conversation going.

He shrugs. "Don't remember."

"Well you do. Almost spitting image. Shame what happened to him though."

"Oh really? What was that?"

Her eyes unscrew themselves in surprise. "You young people should read the papers more. He went 'round the bend. Completely cracked. I think his wife ended up shooting him. 'Course they locked her away. Some asylum or prison for the loonies. Burnt to the ground a month or two ago – "

"Do you smell that?" he asks suddenly, interrupting the flow of tabloid gab.

"What?"

"…I thought I smelled something…familiar. Very faint…."

"Well, what was it?"

"I…don't remember."

The woman's brow knits in a quizzical look. "Nothing important, then?"

"…No. I suppose not…."

_A disgrace to the name of 'Time Lord!' A flash of white and he falls to the ground. It is cold and hard beneath his hands. _

_A disgrace. _

_What did he do? _

_The white grows brighter. He hears…_that_ voice, garbled and muffled, but he _knows _it. You are a disease._

_No._

_An abomination._

_No!_

_A disgrace to the very name – _

_No! _

_You! You did this to me! You did! Rassilon!_

_The white obscures everything._

He blinks. Was he asleep? One glance tells him, no, he wasn't. He is still on the bench, and the old woman is smiling at him, wide and encouraging.

"…What?" he asks.

Her face contracts momentarily. She seems unsure of something. Maybe it's him.

"I was just asking your name, dear. We'd been conversing, so it seemed rude of me not to ask. And then you mumbled something – Ras-whats-it? Is that your name? Ras? Bit of a funny name, but I guess mine might sound funny too. I'm Constance, by the way."

The old woman thinks his name is Ras. He knows it isn't, but it's easier to pretend it is. He doesn't feel like trying to explain the fact he can't remember what he did yesterday, let alone _how_ he ended up on a park bench today, sitting next to a woman who talks in paragraphs. But, that he even remembers Rassilon's name – the owner of _that_ voice – is something. Blank pieces of his dream are filling themselves in, and now he is certain it is _not_ a dream, but a memory. He hadn't been asleep when he remembered Rassilon's name. It happened while that old woman – Constance – was babbling away. Something unlocked itself in his head. Because of her. She had done it. Somehow. Constance's constant rambling had _done_ something. He's sure of it. He briefly wonders if this woman had been _meant_ to find him….

"Do you have the time, Ras?"

She startles him out of his reverie. He jerks his head toward her, annoyed at having his thoughts interrupted. They slip away so easily, so unexpectedly, and he doesn't want it to happen again. Not this time. Not when he's remembered.

Her face shrinks again, ever so slightly, and now he knows he is the cause of it. He relaxes his gaze, wanting to reassure her. Wanting her to not go away. If she goes, she might take the memory of the name that isn't his….

"I'm afraid I don't have a watch." He tries to smile, apologetically.

"Oh, that's all right. Just look at mine. I've misplaced my glasses and the numbers are so tiny." Constance titters, proffering her wrist.

He leans over, reading off the tiny digits: "Twelve thirty-four."

"Twelve thirty?"

"Four. Yes."

"Oh, my! No wonder you're smelling things, Ras. It's lunch already. Probably hungry, I bet. And just look at you! All skin and bones – "

Constance stops herself mid-stream, mouth contracting to a perfect "O" in realization. "Ras, have…have you _got_ anywhere to go?"

He stares at her blankly. "Like where?"

"Well, like, friends or family? A home?"

He shakes his head. "Not that I remember."

"Oh dear! Forgive me, but, how long have you been…in this state? It's just, you don't look like the _normal_ riff-raff hanging about in a park."

He shrugs. "I don't remember."

Her face falls. "Oh, I can't _imagine_! Not even remembering your own family…." Constance trails off, eyes briefly dulling in thought and then brightening as she snaps her fingers in revelation: "Amnesia! That's what it is. You must have amnesia! Well, Ras, that settles it. You're coming home with me straight away…well, after we get some lunch of course – "

"Yes. I am very hungry."

" – and then tomorrow it's straight to the doctor."

"…Doctor?"

"Yes, he's a good man. Known him as long as…well, I won't say," Constance giggles, "but it's been quite a while."

"…Doctor…" he whispers. Images of something blue flit through his mind. _The name of Time Lord. 'You take up arms, Doctor?'_ The thoughts mock him, spinning around his head. Flashes of blue spinning around and around. Always spinning. Twisting. Twirling. Whirling. Like a toy top, only upside down. Not spinning on its point in a fixed spot, but spinning twirling twisting everywhere! Oh Constance, you've done it again!

"Doctor! Can we see him now?"

"My! I've never seen someone so antsy to get a check up! But, it _is_ Sunday, Ras, and even the Lord rested on the seventh day. And so does our doctor. We'll go first thing tomorrow morning. For now, let's you and I grab a bite. What do you fancy?"

He doesn't need to think. He _knows_ what he wants, what he's been craving, but only Constance could have brought it out of him.

"Meat!" he says. "It doesn't matter what kind. Just give me _meat_."

* * *

After lunch, the rest of the day is spent touring around London. That's where he is. London. London. London. He repeats the name to himself to keep it in his memory. He memorizes the names of streets, addresses, corner shops. He constructs a map in his head. Repeating and visualizing and repeating. He asks Constance to take him back to the same streets they'd wandered up and down five times already. But he has to make sure. He _has_ to absorb every detail. Constance obliges, hoping it will help him remember. But despite their walks, despite Constance's endless blathering about everything and anything, nothing comes back to him.

Constance sees his sloping shoulders, his dragging feet, the look of angry desperation knitting his brow as he stares at the numbers on a building, willing them to make sense. She suggests they head home (her home) for dinner.

She makes a beef stew for dinner and he spends the rest of the evening riffling through her collection of gossip magazines and month old tabloids. He studies names, dates, faces, places, advertisements, but recognizes nothing. _These would print nothing of consequence, anyway_, he thinks. But the stacks of yellowing paper paired with Constance's exhaustive knowledge of sensationalized news do give him insight to his host. She is trusting to a fault. She takes everything at face value, not questioning what the headlines tell her, and therefore she never questions her first impression of a complete stranger. Her trust is both a comfort and a curse to him. She has fed him and provided him a place to sleep for tonight, at least – two necessities taken care of – but there is a dark part of him that wonders if that is the extent of her usefulness. Her constant chatter managed to awaken some parts of his mind, but now, it's almost as if it's been shut off again. He decides to focus on what he's learned today as he pages through the magazines.

_The owner of the voice he hears every night has a name: Rassilon._

_This Rassilon did something to him (which may or may not account for the amnesia.)_

_Constance is taking him to the doctor tomorrow. He is most anxious for this trip. The doctor will fix his head so he can remember and maybe explain why he sees the color blue when he hears the word "doctor." _

He smiles to himself as he turns another page. Doctor doctor doctor. Blue blue blue. Twisting turning spinning whirling blue.

After the late night news, Constance shows him to the guest room at the top of the stairs. He doesn't feel tired, but is surprised at how quickly he falls asleep. The dream comes, as it always does, but it doesn't end with the blinding flash of white. Instead, all he sees is the white-nothing with Rassilon's voice echoing those horrible words: _"You are a disease. An abomination!"_ Over and over again. _A disease. An abomination._ He tries to fight it, to find the ground beneath his hands like last time, but the white-nothing won't let him until finally he manages to pitch himself forward. He breaks the surface of the dream as his eyes fly open to the pitch black room. He's fairly certain he screamed. He strains his ears against the dark but hears no sounds. Constance must be a heavy sleeper. He rolls over onto his side, facing the night stand. On it is a digital clock. He's shocked to learn he's only been asleep for an hour. The red numbers burn against the black room. 12:34. He continues to stare at it, counting the seconds in his head. They tic by slowly. 12:34. Everything is so dark. The numbers seem to hang in mid-air. 12:34. One, two (twelve), three, four (thirty-four). _'What time is it?' she had asked._ _'Twelve thirty four,' he'd answered._ Twelve (one, two) thirty-four (three, four).

He shuts his eyes once more. The numbers burn against his eyelids. 12:34. One, two, three, four. He resumes counting the seconds, but they pass by _so_ slowly. One. Two. Three. Four.

* * *

_To be continued…_


End file.
